Basil and the Treasure of Kings
by dreamersofthedreams
Summary: When Basil of Baker Street unexpectedly reunites with a childhood friend, he finds himself thrust into an adventure unlike any he has seen before. Facing danger on land, sea, and air, the Detective of Baker Street will cross the globe to defend Queen and country - and, perhaps, a certain lady mouse. Please R/R - reviews are life! Illustrations are now on Deviantart! PM for link
1. Chapter 1

The lights glimmered throughout the foyer of the Mousetoria Theatre as the chandeliers sparkled like the diamond earrings they had once been. Men and women milled in the usual frenzy of evening excitement in black coats and swirling skirts, and standing stiff-backed in the thick of it all was a perturbed Basil of Baker Street.

It had been Dawson's idea to attend the opening of "The Detective of Baker Street", but then, he didn't find it nearly as tiresome to glad-hand society mice and indulge such a glut of small talk as comes with being recognized as the inspiration for the evening's entertainment.

"I say, old chap," Basil muttered to his associate in a rare moment's peace "what an absolutely tedious production."

Dr. David Q. Dawson sniffed, straightening his waistcoat. "Really, Basil, is it as bad as all that?"

"Excuse me, Madam" Basil caught the attention of an approaching woman, who looked at him curiously "how do you find the play thus far? Your honest opinion, please, if you will."

The woman looked taken aback for a moment, then answered "Honestly? I find it quite a delightful diversion - especially if your taste in entertainment is watching actors fumble wooden lines."

Dawson's mouth gaped, but Basil stifled a self-satisfied smirk.

"Precisely, Madam." He agreed.

"Besides, I must say their portrayal of the detective is terribly skewed." The woman continued carelessly.

"I found it quite accurate." The real detective of Baker Street replied, a prickle of defensiveness in his voice.

"Really?" The woman raised her eyebrows. "I am certain he was not always such a gentleman. Why, I have it on very good authority that as a child he quite terrorized his poor nurse and was never fit to be seen by society mice for the dirt and sap on his breeches."

"My dear lady-" Dawson began, aghast.

"How could you possibly know that?" Basil's features darkened suspiciously.

"Really, Mr. StJohn," She smiled mockingly up at him "Have I changed so much that you wouldn't recognize me?"

The detective looked down at her. The trim, powder-grey mouse with the sweet smile and laughing eyes cut a fashionable silhouette in her burgundy evening gown. A gold comb pushed her curls forward, holding them in place and gleaming in the foyer lights.

"Not at all," He said at last, smiling in recognition with the same kind eyes that looked back at him, " _Millie._ "

"You are and always have been the only person who calls me that." She grinned. "I do hope you'll continue, Mr. StJohn."

"To you, Millie, I will always be Basil." he assured, clapping a hand to Dawson's shoulder. "May I introduce Dr. David Q. Dawson, my trusted associate. Dawson, miss Wilhelmina Pole. It is still Miss Pole?"

He asked the question more out of formality than curiosity.

"It is." She nodded "But as observant as you are, I suspect you already knew that.""

Basil sighed modestly "No ring on your left hand." He admitted.

"Absolutely charming to meet you, I''m sure." The doctor nodded politely at the woman.

"Likewise, Dr. Dawson." Millie replied.

"We grew up together." Basil explained.

"Wilhelmina, dear," a tall, gaunt mouse with pale brown hair and an over-waxed mustache touched Millie's elbow, gently demanding her attention. "There you are. We should take our seats, the show is about to resume."

"Yes, of course." She nodded stiffly. "But first, this is Basil StJohn, the real Detective of Baker Street."

"Really?" The gaunt mouse bared his teeth in an unsettlingly disingenuous smile and shook Basil's hand firmly. "I say, ripping good show tonight. You are quite the hero, aren't you?"

"This is Bartholomew Aldermouse." Millie sounded embarrassed, and slightly put out by the man's presence. "My... accompaniment for the evening."

"A pleasure." He said in a voice as oiled as his mustache. "Would love to stay and chat, but we really must get to our seats."

"Yes, of course." Basil nodded, looking to the woman intently. "Do come by and visit. 221 1/2 Baker Street."

"I will," Millie smiled, slowing the pace as Bartholomew Aldermouse led her away. "I look forward to it."

The foyer began to empty as mice returned into the theatre for the second half of the show. Basil and Dawson waited, watching the thinning crowd.

"Fancy that." Dawson mused.

"Yes." Basil agreed quietly.

"If you find the production that bad," Dawson offered "we needn't stay."

"Come, come, Dawson." The detective flashed his comrade a dashing smile. "Things are just starting to get interesting."


	2. Chapter 2

"Basil?" Dawson hung his coat and bowler on the coat rack near the door. "I say, Basil, where are you?"

The parlor was quiet and warm. The scent of cheese crumpets wafted from the kitchen.

A shuffle and a thump from the top of the stairs answered the question, and Dawson quietly climbed the steps.

The second floor of 221 1/2 Baker Street was bigger than it needed to be, with a few guest rooms, a lavatory, Basil's bedroom and a library. It was from this last room the sounds emanated. The doctor knocked lightly, pushing the door open.

Basil sat in a stiff chair at an ornate roll-top writing desk, surrounded by pages and pages of newsprint.

"What's all this?" Dawson asked, astonished.

"Society pages." Basil replied, preoccupied as he used his magnifying glass to read the minute print. "All the society pages published in every paper for the last year."

"Why on earth -"

"Why didn't I know she'd move to London?" The detective muttered to himself, laying the glass aside and shuffling through the papers.

Dawson smirked. "Miss Pole, is it?"

"We were children together. In Hampshire." Basil muttered almost to himself. "Our families' homes so near each other that our lives were separated only by a gate."

A slow, nostalgic smile crept across his face. "We were inseparable until the day I was sent away to school."

Dawson said nothing, unsure if the detective was in fact speaking to him or if, more likely, he was talking to himself, working through the puzzle pieces in his head.

"Her father was an explorer - an archaeologist, really." Basil continued, his fingers idly flipping against the edges of the newsprint. "He worked with the London Museum. We quite idolized him."

The detective's memory drifted, the view of his family's vast estate and sprawling gardens trailing vividly across his thoughts. Hedges and stone benches hid the iron gates at the edge of the garden, which formed a short cut to the neighboring estate's garden.

The young mouse, still fluff and baby fat ran across the green lawn, opening the squeaky gate and sprinting over the grounds of the neighboring estate, taking the steps of the manner house two at a time and rapping at the door.

The door opened, a tiny grey mouse adorned in flounces and ribbon opened the door.

"He's here, Basil! He's home!" She squealed excitedly. "Come see!"

She grabbed his hand, pullin ghim into the house so quickly that Basil hardly had time to acknowledge the butler Mr. Pendergrass, who stood aghast that the young mistress of the house would answer the door herself.

Basil followed the little girl, racing her through the house to a stately library, wherein a tall, strapping mouse, dark grey with tan spots, stood regally in front of a gleaming desk which was filled with exotic and exciting artifacts.

"Papa!" The little mouseling ran to him and he scooped her up.

"Wilhelmina, darling!" He laughed, tossing her gently in the air and hugging her tightly. "Look at how you've grown." He flashed the little boy a dashing smile.

"Well, Basil," he gestured to the desk. "What do you think?"

The young Basil crossed to the desk, his eyes wide as he beheld the treasures; pottery and marble figures and jewelry the likes of which he'd never seen.

"Where did they all come from?" He asked admiringly.

"From mysterious lands." The tall Mr. Pole replied cryptically. "Along the banks of massive rivers, over golden sands and in deepest jungle."

He grinned widely, laughing warmly at the children's mystified faces.

"Go on now, you two. Last looks, and then off with you. I've got to get these together for the museum."

The children ogled the artifacts a moment longer before being shooed from the room.

"When I grow up, I'm going to be an explorer, just like your father." Basil announced as the doors to the library closed behind them.

"Me, too." Millie agreed as they wandered the halls of the house. "Wouldn't it be exciting? To sail the seas and cut through jungle brush?"

"Don't be silly." Basil scoffed as they pushed the doors open to the garden. With a swift jump, he hopped onto the wide, low stone railing of the walk. "You're a girl. Girls aren't explorers."

"No?" Millie looked up to him in surprise as she started down the garden steps.

"Certainly not." Basil insisted, his arms out as he balanced along the rail, keeping step with her as she descended the steps. "Girls grow up to be ladies. Ladies stay home, and wait for explorers to return."

"That doesn't sound like very much fun." Millie sounded disappointed. Basil jumped from the railing, landing softly on the green turf at the bottom of the garden steps.

"Of course it's not - it's proper." Basil agreed with childlike indifference. "I'll be an explorer, and you'll wait at home for me and I'll come home and tell you all about my adventures."

Millie was quiet, thoughtfully considering the concept of propriety.

"No..." She said finally. "I think I'd like to go with you. If ladies aren't explorers, then I shan't be a lady... or I shall be the first lady explorer. That way, I'd still be able to wear ribbons."

The chime of the front door shook Basil from his distraction. Once again, he was in his own library. Dawson looked up from the page he was scanning.

"Who do you suppose that is?" He asked.

"Let Mrs. Judson get it." Basil dismissed the question, returning his attention to the papers.

Below, the sound of Mrs. Judson crossing the front room let them know she was answering the door. Dawson's ears pricked as he listened to the conversation downstairs.

"May I help you, dear?"

"I've come to call on Basil of Baker Street." A familiar feminine voice drifted ever so subtly up the stairs. "Is he in?""

Mrs. Judson didn't get the chance to answer before Basil was out of his chair, across the room and down the stairs so quickly it caused a breeze that rustled the doctor's whiskers.

"Millie," Basil said brightly from the staircase. "Do come in."

"Hello, Basil. Oh, I'm sorry." Her smile turned to concern as she looked past her old friend. "Dr. Dawson, it's good to see you. Is this a bad time?"

"Not at all, Miss Pole." Dawson assured indulgently, entertained by his usually confident partner's unusually eager-to-please demeanor. "It's good to see you, as well. Cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

The front room was cozy with the three of them nestled into chairs around the fireplace. The autumn chill outside forgotten in the glow of the afternoon embers. Basil sipped his tea slowly, watching the woman he had known as a mouseling now sitting across from him.

"Millie, I really must ask," he said at last "what are you doing in London? Las I'd heard, you'd decided to stay on the continent."

"I'd have thought, Basil," she smiled, a friendly teasing tone to her voice, "a detective of your notoriety would have figured it out."

Basil swallowed. Millie sighed.

"I came home two years ago, when mother died." She confessed.

Her old friend nodded sadly. "Yes, I had received word she'd passed. I'm so sorry, Millie."

"It's alright." She assured. "I had planned to stay with father. To take care of him, keep him company, you know. But he took a house in London 18 months ago. He felt it would be a more entertaining place for me to live while he was off digging in Egypt."

"He's in Egypt?" Dawson asked, thoroughly interested in world travels.

"I think the need for adventure runs through him like blood, or oxygen." Millie remarked. "Quite like you, Basil. 'Famous Detective Solves Baffling Disappearance.' Well done."

"And you're waiting at home." Basil's voice was tinged with regret.

"I've had my own adventures, in a way." Millie shrugged. "Paris is lovely, and I got to see so much of the continent while I was away. Not quite golden sands, or darkest jungle, but such is life."

The three sat in silence for a moment, before the woman looked around the room.

"Is that cheese pie I smell, Basil?" She inquired brightly, a mischievous grin sneaking across her face.

"Mrs. Judson's cheese crumpets." Basil answered wryly. "I've quite lost my taste for cheese pie, as well you know."

Millie laughed, looking to Dawson. "Did you know, Dr. Dawson, that your partner's penchant for belaying crime traces all the way back to his childhood?"

"Why, no." Dawson replied, taking some pleasure in his usually confident friend's momentary embarrassment.

Millie set the stage for Dr. Dawson, and as she spoke, he could clearly imagine a broken, greying shed nestled in a bank of trees, far back on the manner grounds. A young Millie, at the edge of adolescence and scrawny even under the layers of lace on her dress, wandered through, climbing over roots and stumps, on a mission to find her friend.

She rounded the corner of the shed, once used to house the gardener's tools and now quite forgotten by all but herself and Basil. She could hear the muffled noise of movement coming from inside.

"Basil?" She called. The door to the shed had been padlocked long ago, but a corner of the door had rotted away, creating a small hole just the right size to squeeze through. Millie ducked through the hole, having to stop and sit just inside as she freed her skirts from where they snagged on the decaying wood, and tugging them through the hole. "Basil?"

In the dim light, she could make out the shape of a gangly mouse, all elbows and angles, curled up on a bench in the corner, sniffling.

"Go away." Basil sniffed at her.

"Whatever are you doing in here?" Millie stood, brushing herself off.

"Hiding." The boy admitted.

"From what?" She put her hands on her hips.

"Cook." He admitted with a sniff.

Millie cocked her head, her ears pricked curiously. She stifled a disbelieving laugh.

"What?" She choked back a giggle.

"I knicked one of her pies." He said. "Only I didn't mean to. She's taken to setting them in the cupboard because she says someone's been stealing them when she sets them on the sill. So I thought I'd catch the rascal."

Millie blinked as the confession tumbled out of her friend, listening patiently as he talked.

"So I took one of her pies and I set it on the sill and I hid round the corner and I waited."

"And... did you catch him?" She asked when he paused for a breath. "Who was it?"

"A sparrow!" The boy wailed helplessly. "And he made off with the pie before I could so much as shout! And Lord and Lady Ratsby are coming to dinner tonight and Cook is going to thrash me!"

Millie couldn't contain herself. Her ribs shook as she unsuccessfully tried to stifle another giggle, which turned into a peel of merry laughter. Basil looked at her piteously.

"It's not funny." He said, as though he'd been betrayed.

"Oh, Basil, of course it is!" She giggled, pulling her friend up and dusting him off. "Come on, then." She turned, crouching as she squeezed back through the hole in the door.

"Where are you going?" He asked after her. She popped her head back in.

"Well, I can't capture a sparrow, but I can make a cheese pie." She said matter-of-factly. "And if you'll hurry up and help me, we'll have it back in time for supper and Cook will never know."

"It did look alright." Millie defended between fits of laughter as Dawson chuckled.

"But it tasted awful." Basil laughed.

"Terrible!" She dissolved again into giggles.

"Cook was so angry." The detective continued "She couldn't figure out what had gone wrong."

"You never told her?" Dawson wiped a mirthful tear from his eye.

"If you've have met cook, you wouldn't have either." Millie assured him.

Basil sighed. "I left for school the next morning."

The tone changed in the conversation.

"Yes." Millie said, seemingly distracted. "You'll forgive me gentlemen, but I just noticed the time, and I must be going."

"I'll see you to the door." Basil and Dawson stood as she rose.

"Yes, and... I'll take my leave, shall I?" The doctor looked between them. "Check on those crumpets."

He toddled off, teacup in hand, through the kitchen door, and Basil was at once left alone with his guest.

The two stood silently for a moment, as though unsure of how to proceed.

"It has been... truly wonderful to see you, Millie." Basil offered sincerely. "I do wish you'd written."

"I did." She replied simply. "For two years, while you were away at school. But when you stopped answering my letters those last few months, and then you didn't come home the Christmas I was set to leave for the continent... I rather believed you'd quite forgotten about me."

The tall detective looked stricken, his features softening regretfully.

"Oh... Dear Millie," He began.

"It doesn't matter now." She shook her head, smiling slightly. "It was a long time ago."

"Yes." He nodded. "But now I know you're in London, I hope you would grant me the pleasure of letting me take you to dinner tonight."

"Tonight?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Yes," He insisted. "You may have seen the city by now, but not with me, and I'm afraid I must insist."

He smiled. "I would very much like us to be friends again."

She returned his affectionate expression. "I should like that, too. Dinner would be lovely."


	4. Never Forgotten

Basil stood at the window in his library, staring out at the steel grey city with the slate grey sky. Little pattering raindrops began to speckle the paving stones and rustle the shrubbery outside. His thoughts drifted to a similarly grey day, long ago. The cheese pie day. Basil and Millie sat quietly together on one of the stone benches in the garden, well sheltered by a towering statue belonging to the humans with which their families shared the grounds. They looked out together over the darkening landscape, while in the distance the lights from the manner twinkled merrily in the twilight. Basil's parents were still inside, enjoying after dinner refreshments with the Ratsbys.

"You won't be gone forever." Millie said, quietly but encouragingly. "You'll come home every holiday."

"I know." Basil acknowledged dishearteningly.

"And we will write to each other." She continued.

"Yes." Basil agreed. "It's just... I've never been away from home before. Leastwise, not by myself." The mouseling sighed. "I was so excited when father told me I was going to Pembermouse. But now..." He trailed off.

"Pretend it's an adventure." Millie encouraged. "Like one of my father's. Pretend you're at base camp of Mount Kilimanjaro, or in a bivouac on the Savannah."

"But I'll be alone." Basil countered. "It won't be like playing explorers in the garden."

The young female mouseling considered this a moment, then reached up. The boy turned and watched her curiously as she removed the hat from her head and untied one of the blue velvet ribbons from her hair.

"Here." She said, winding the ribbon into a small bow. She took one of the fine, sharp pins from her hat and reached for Basil's jacket, gingerly pinning the bow to the inside of his lapel. "Now I'll be with you, and you won't be alone. Not ever."

Basil laid a hand over the spot on his chest where the ribbon was securely hidden. They sat in silence a moment longer.

"You won't forget me, will you Basil?" Millie broke the silence, looking uncertainly at her lifelong friend.

Basil's brow furrowed. He patted his pockets, searching himself for something to give her. He pulled a silk handkerchief with a distinctive floral pattern from his pocket.

"Here." He said, holding it out to her. "Gran sent it to me. Nurse even monogrammed it."

He blushed, embarrassed of what he felt was entirely too flamboyant a gift. "I haven't used it ever. Promise."

Millie took the handkerchief, turning over in her hands and examining the ostentatious and decidedly un-Basil design of it.

"I won't forget you." He said seriously. "Not ever."

The London rain eased and the fog began to roll through the streets like the years through Basil's memory. Dreary early days of school, punctuated by letters and merry holidays at home. The grown mouse sifted through the days and weeks and months, through each memory of games in the garden, how his friend changed and grew between visits, and the long months wiled away with new friends at Pembermouse, trying to pin down the moment when things changed. When his schooling began to take hold and consume him. When the prospect of exams and the possibility of prestigious universities became suddenly so important. He remembered well the long, lonely weeks shuttered in his dormitory, studying for hours on end while letters from home piled up, unread and unanswered. He remembered writing to his mother, apologizing and explaining he wouldn't be coming home for the Christmas holiday, how important the examps in spring term were and how he planned to stay at school and study.

For the first time in his life, he imagined that Christmas in Hampshire through Millie's eyes. He imagined her knocking at the door of the manner on the second day of break, as she always did.

"Hello, Mrs. Sunningdale." He bright eyes shone in the dreary cold of winter. "Is Basil home yet? Has he arrived?"

"Haven't you heard, my dear?" Mrs. Sunningdale's Welsh lilt echoed in his mind. "The young master won't be coming home for holiday."

Basil could clearly see Millie's surprised, crestfallen face. "No, I'm... I'm afraid I hadn't heard. I'm set to leave for the continent in a few days - I had hoped to see him."

"Hasn't he written you?" Mrs. Sunningdale certainly would have asked.

Basil swallowed hard. He hadn't written. He hadn't even read her past few letters. He'd never have guessed she'd leave.

Another holiday invaded his thoughts - what was meant to be his triumphant return to Hampshire. He arrived home, nearly grown and filled with optimism. He'd only stopped to say hello to his parents for a moment before running the familiar path through the gardens to the Pole estate, as he had countless times when he was younger. Like a child, he burst through the doors.

"Millie!" He shouted, all thoughts of propriety cast aside in his excitement. He ran fast, skidding on the polished floors to the bottom of the foyer stairs. "Millie, I'm home! I've passed, Millie, and guess what! I've been accepted to the Royal University!"

His voice echoed against the walls. The whole house seemed strangely void of life.

"Millie?" He called again.

Mr. Pendergrass appeared at the top of the staircase.

"Mr. Pendergrass, where's Millie?" Basil asked the aging butler.

"I'm afraid Miss Pole is on the continent, sir." Mr. Pendergrass replied.

"But it's spring holiday!" Basil exclaimed incredulously. "When will she return? Tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid you don't understand." Pendergrass said in his kindly, dignified way. "Miss Pole is to stay on the continent through the duration of finishing school. It will be several years before she returns."

The news hit Basil like waves against breakers. His heart sank and he felt heavy with disappointment.

"Didn't she write, sir?" Pendergrass inquired.

Basil recalled with great guilt the stack of unread letters.

"No, yes..." Basil collected himself. "I mean, yes... she did. I simply..." He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Pendergrass."

Wounded, he turned to leave.

"Congratulations on passing your exams, sir." Pendergrass said politely as Basil opened the door. "The Royal University is a fine school. Quite the adventure for you, I'm sure."

"Yes." was all the slumped and saddened young mouse could manage, as he left the manner for the last time.

Basil turned away from the window, turning his attention instead to a small mirror hung over the roll-top desk in his library. He examined his reflection, somewhat older and more pessimistic than it had been those years ago, but a picture of charm and elegant society nonetheless. He straightened his cravat and smoothed the lapels of his jacket, his hand lingering over his chest for a moment. He frowned, reaching for one of the small cupboards on the desk. Opening it, he pulled out a small stack of old but unopened letters, on top of which lay a soft blue velvet ribbon, tied firmly in a small bow.

With great care, Basil picked up the bow, pinning it to the inside of his jacket.

The clock chimed. Basil descended the stairs, taking his overcoat from the hook and opening the door.

"Dinner out tonight, Mrs. Judson!" He called quickly, closing the door behind him, and trotting quickly down Baker Street.


	5. Break-In

The street lamps glowed a misty gold against the rain-slicked silver of the pavement. The night was mild and quiet but for the occasional clip-clopping and rattle of the passing carriage. Basil and Millie walked slowly, arm in arm, enjoying the night air and each other's company.

"Thank you for dinner. I had an absolutely wonderful time." Millie said as they rounded the corner.

"Not at all. The pleasure was mine." Basil insisted.

"It's grand to spend an evening with someone - _anyone_ other than Bartholomew Aldermouse." Millie chuckled.

"The chap from the theatre." Basil recalled.

"He's the liaison between the museum and my father while he's abroad. He seems to believe that position entitles him to my time." Millie sighed. "I do sometimes indulge him for father's sake."

"I cannot believe you never married." Basil mused casually.

"Be fair, Basil, I'm hardly a spinster." Millie laughed, still young despite being older than the blushing teenage brides of stories. She cocked her head toward his shoulder thoughtfully. "I suppose the right offer never presented itself."

Basil nodded.

"I'm sorry I stopped answering your letters. And I'm sorry I never wrote while you were away."

"Oh, Basil," Millie shook her head as they neared her front door. "Let's forget all that now, shall we?"

They stood at the top of the steps, just outside the door.

"Can we just start afresh?" She asked.

Basil smiled gently. "Certainly. Goodnight."

Millie returned his smile. "Goodnight."

Millie turned and slipped the key into the lock, disappearing into the house as Basil turned and descended the stairs. He turned back down the street, walking only a few steps down the sidewalk before a shrill scream stopped him in his tracks.

"Millie!" He shouted as, in a flash, he turned on his heels and flew back to the house, dashing up the steps and through the open door.

Millie stood in the foyer, shocked by the sight of the room. Vases were pulled from tables and shattered on the floor. Doors had been knocked off their hinges and through the broken casings it was apparent the rooms had been ransacked.

"What on earth -?" Basil surveyed the scene, before dashing back out the door. "You! Sir!" He flagged down a passing mouse. "Fetch the police! Scotland Yard. Tell them there's been a break-in at Miss Pole's residence. Fetch Dr. Dawson, too, of Baker Street!"

The mouse nodded and ran off and Basil returned back into the house.

"Millie," He held her elbows gently. "Wait on the step while I see if the fiend is still about."

The shaken mouse nodded and obeyed the detective's instructions, stepping outside as he disappeared further into the house.

Millie paced the top step, her brow knit. She chewed her lower lip as her fingers nervously tugged at the handkerchief in her hands.

Basil emerged from the house at much the same time the inspectors arrived.

"It would seem whoever was here has gone." He assured her.

"Basil, there is something I must tell you." She began quickly.

"Wilhelmina!" A shout caught their attention. In the lamp light, behind the inspectors, Bartholomew Aldermouse trotted quickly up the street. "My goodness! What's happened? Are you alright?"

He placed a hand on Millie's shoulder, which she brushed away.

"Yes, Mr. Aldermouse, I'm quite fine." She dismissed.

"Please, darling, do call me Bartie - I have asked you so many times."

"It would seem the scoundrels got away." Basil informed the mouse, whose well-oiled mustache gleamed in the lamplight. "But not to worry. We'll soon track them down and have our answer."

"I don't need answers." Millie interrupted quietly. "I know who they were and what they were after."

"Wilhelmina!" Bartholomew gasped sharply.

"Please, Basil," She looked to the detective. "Send the inspectors outside, and I'll tell you."


	6. The Amulet

The gentlemen followed Millie into the ransacked drawing room and she closed the doors quietly behind them. She turned, looking with great distress at the mess. Books were pulled off shelves and scattered across the floor. Cushions had been ripped open and the stuffing pulled out.

"What is all this about?" Bartholomew Aldermouse insisted, his voice tight and urgent.

"I'm sorry, Basil." Millie began. "I had thought to tell you this evening, but the whole thing was so utterly mysterious, I wasn't sure what to make of it, myself."

"What is it?" Basil asked worriedly. "You can tell me anything."

"I received a package this afternoon." She confessed, reaching into the pocket of her dress and producing a small bundle, wrapped in a floral silk handkerchief. "From my father."

She unwrapped the handkerchief, producing a shining gold amulet, set with a huge, gleaming lapis lazuli cabochon. Basil's eyes widened. Bartholomew's jaw dropped.

"It's exquisite!" The museum liaison breathed. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Nor I." Basil agreed critically, his eyes narrowing.

"Look on the back." Millie turned the amulet over, holding it out for the men to see.

"Hieroglyphics." Bartholomew marveled, looking over Basil's shoulder at the ornate gold back of the amulet.

"Quite so." The detective muttered, scanning the symbols. He looked up at his childhood friend, disbelief written across his face. "This kartush..."

"Yes." Millie nodded her understanding stiffly.

A knock at the parlor door made them jump and an inspector stepped in.

"A Doctor Dawson has arrived for you, sir." He informed Basil, who nodded.

"Yes, thank you." He looked to the woman. "You think whoever broke in was looking for this?"

"I'm quite sure." She said, once again wrapping the amulet in the handkerchief and slipping it into her pocket.

"Then it is of utmost importance we keep it and you safe." Basil announced. "We've quite the mystery on our hands, but never fear. We'll get to the bottom of it. For now, Mr. Aldermouse, please escort Miss Pole back to Baker Street where she'll be safe while the doctor and I search for clues."

"Happily." Bartholomew agreed.

"But Basil-" Millie protested but in vain, as the detective swept swiftly out of the room to meet his colleague and comb the residence for clues.

The woman sighed.

"Shall we?" Bartholomew Aldermouse held his elbow out to Millie.

"Pardon me, Mr. Aldermouse, but what are you doing here, anyway?" She asked, annoyed.

The tall, slender mouse cleared his throat.

"As it happens," He confessed "I received a letter from your father, intimating you might be in danger and not to let you out of my sight. Naturally, I rushed right over to see you were alright, and I must say I'm glad I did."

A silence passed between them.

"Please," Bartholomew said kindly. "Let me escort you to Baker Street. You can tell me everything you know on the way."

Millie took a breath, thinking everything over before nodding, taking Bartholomew Aldermouse's elbow, and following his lead out of the house and down the street.

"Tell me, Mr. Aldermouse, how extensive is your understanding of hieroglyphics?" She asked as they stepped past the inspectors and down the sidewalk.

"Passable." He replied. "Most of my importance to the museum revolves around my knowledge of the area itself and my organizational ability; communicating with our archaeologists and passing information back and forth from the curators."

"Could you read the kartush on the amulet?"

"I'm not sure." Bartholomew frowned. "I thought perhaps, but... it's quite impossible, isn't it?"

"You understand more than you think." Millie chuckled. "Our knowledge of Egyptian antiquity is limited, though we are always learning more. There is belief among scholars of... a gap, in the order of reigning pharaohs. A missing dynasty, if you will, ruled over by a pharaoh of the name Amouse-Rah."

She sideglanced the gentleman, watching his expression carefully before continuing. "It has been said that during his reign, Amouse-Rah constructed a grand treasury, into which he deposited the treasure of five kingdoms, bringing them together, unified under his rule."

"But the Treasure of Kings is just a child's tale." The mustachioed man shook his head. "Nothing has ever been found to absolutely prove the existence of Amouse-Rah."

"Until now, it would appear." Millie countered. "I have reason to believe my father has not only found proof of Amouse-Rah, but his cache of treasure, as well."

She took a deep breath.

"And I fear he wouldn't have sent this to me unless he was in trouble, which is why I'm sorry, Mr. Aldermouse, but I won't be going to Baker Street with you, as I must find my father."

"My dear Wilhelmina!" Bartholomew stopped short, aghast.

Millie turned on her heel to face him, her jaw set and a look of resolved determination in her eyes.

"You can't be serious." He protested.

"I'm afraid I am." She nodded. "I can't tell Basil, as he would only try to stop me, but I am quite resolved."

"Wilhelmina, please -" Aldermouse began.

"He is my father." Millie retorted sharply "And lady or not, I will not sit home and wait for news that something terrible has happened to him." She shook her head "No, this amulet is a sign he may be in danger and I am going to help him."

"You cannot do this-"

"Please, Mr. Aldermouse, do not try to stop me." Millie shook her head.

"I won't." He said briskly, and much to her surprise. "What I was going to say, is that you cannot do this alone. I can see you are quite determined. And as you are disinclined to tell your detective friend, then I must insist I accompany you on the journey."

"Mr. Aldermouse," She began uncertainly. He held up a hand to silence her.

"Miss Pole," He said calmly "I am not a man of many friends. In part, perhaps, because my disposition does not lend itself to being well-liked. Nevertheless, you have been kind to me. And, I think if you give me the chance, you might find I am somewhat... braver than one might expect."

Millie sighed, looking at him as she seriously considered his words.

"It will be a long journey." She said at last.

"I think you'll find I'm quite suited to travel." He replied.

She thought a moment, then nodded.

"Very well, Mr. Alderman." She said with a grin. "Then let's away immediately. We can purchase necessities once we're off."

With little more ado, the pair set off down the street, bypassing the corner which would have taken them to Baker Street, instead making their way with conviction toward the nearest train station.

The night deepened as the hours pressed on, each moment taking Millie and her companion further from London while bringing Dr. Dawson and the Detective of Baker Street closer to the truth.

"I say, Basil." Dawson remarked, as they entered yet another room of the Pole residence. "The scoundrel was certainly thorough."

"Indeed he was, old chap." Basil agreed, looking around at the curtains torn from their rods and the figurines smashed from the mantel place. "But I do believe Millie was correct when she said the thieves were after the amulet."

"How so?" Dawson asked, examining an oil painting that hung crookedly on the wall.

"If we were on the trail of a mere thief, there would be no need for such destruction." Basil said. "Our thief was looking for something specific. Look how the ash from the fireplace is strewn about the floor. He was looking up the chimney."

"Whatever for?" The doctor beheld the black dust which sprawled out to the middle of the room.

"Obviously, he was trying to discover where Miss Pole hid the amulet." The detective concluded simply. "Surely, Doctor, you noticed the abundance of soot and ash trailed through the house. Isn't it peculiar the thief started his search here, at the rear of the house?"

"I suppose so." Dawson nodded, examining the fireplace. "Why, Basil, look here!"

Basil looked to see the rotund doctor pointing at a wood panel which, while being part of the mantel itself, had been swung away from the rest of the structure by way of a hidden hinge, and now exposed a small and especially well hidden chamber.

"How very odd." Dawson remarked. "Why, it's almost like a small safety box, isn't it? Better than, if you ask me, for if it were closed, you'd never know it existed."

Basil swung the panel back and forth on it's hinges. When closed, it fitted seamlessly into the mantel.

"What a brilliant mind you've got, Dawson!" Basil laughed triumphantly. "Why, that cupboard answers all our questions, does it not?"

"And how is that?" the doctor asked, flattered that his colleague thought so very highly of him, yet curious as to why he should.

"This panel has no soot on it, meaning it must have been one of the first things our villain touched. No common thief would think to look for so clever a hiding place, meaning he knew it was here and that Millie must have used it."

"I say!" Dawson exclaimed.

"She's been in town these 18 months past, and despite the look of her, Millie has always somewhat begrudged high society." Basil's words flooded out as his thoughts raced. "She's kept quite limited company since her arrival. We must away and back to Baker Street, on the double. I fear I've left her in the company of the very mouse who has done this to her home in search of the amulet."

Before he could reply, Basil was out the door, racing through the house and out onto the street, his sights set firmly on Baker Street. Dawson followed, struggling to keep up.

"I should have known!" He berated himself as he ran. "Aldermouse has done more than exchange letters with Mr. Pole - he's got his own men watching him! Who else would even know the amulet was in the country? Come along, Dawson!"

The walls of 221 1/2 Baker Street shook as the door opened with a large crash. Mrs. Judson screamed and ran from the kitchen.

"My goodness!" She exclaimed at the sight of Basil and Dawson entering. "What's all this palava about?"

"Mrs. Judson, where is Miss Pole?" Basil demanded dangerously.

"Miss Pole, sir?" The landlady looked from one to the other curiously, still quite startled.

"Didn't she arrive?" Dawson asked, wheezing as fanned his flushed face with this cap.

"No one's been here, sir. It's been a quiet evening." She fixed them both with an accusatory glare. "Til now."

The comrades looked at each other.

"He's absconded with Miss Pole." Dawson declared fearfully. "They could be anywhere."

"Not anywhere." The detective countered. "Pack your things. Pack only what is necessary. We don't need anything weighing us down."

"We what?" The doctor asked in puzzlement.

"Once we are set, I shall tell you everything." Basil assured, climbing the staircase rapidly. "It's a long journey to Egypt. There will be plenty of time to tell you all about Amouse-Rah, and the Treasure of Kings!"


	7. The Station

The streets of Paris were cold and damp. The city had a familiar sooty smell that Wilhelmina Pole knew well. It was an odd sort of homecoming; a secret return to the city that had housed her for so many years.

"Right." She said, watching the traffic bustle along the avenue. "We'll need to garner supplies. How's your French?"

"Quite satisfactory." Bartholomew Aldermouse replied proudly.

The small grey mouse looked at her traveling companion, a flicker of appreciation in her eyes.

"I am glad to have someone here with me." She confessed sincerely. "Thank you."

He smiled shyly, his mustache twitching.

"Do you think we will be able to find everything we need on such short notice?" He asked.

Millie smiled. "Oh, one can find anything in Paris if one knows where to look."

He held out his elbow her. "Then show me the way."

The day was spent hurrying from shop to shop, gathering what maps and goods the pair would need on their excursion. Mr. Aldermouse had been modest when he said his French was merely satisfactory, as he conversed as comfortably with the locals as he might have back in London. Millie had been quite correct in her assertion that everything could be found in Paris. In a mere matter of hours the pair were on their way back to the train station.

"I do feel awful, leaving so suddenly." Millie confessed as they walked down the street. "It was so impulsive, and to leave no word - Basil will be half mad with worry, I'm sure."

"You were quite set on not telling him." Bartholomew reminded.

The woman nodded. "I know... but surely now we're so far ahead... I feel I should wire him word that I am well. He deserves at least that courtesy."

Bartholomew thought, his expression pursed.

"If you feel that strongly about it, my dear, I shall send word to him immediately." He said as they reached the doors of the train station.

"Really?"

"Quite so." He nodded. "I should send word to the museum anyway. You continue on. I'll meet you at the platform in a moment."

Millie nodded, relieved he should be so agreeable, and glad her friend might at least know she was safe. Taking her newly purchased carpet bag in hand, she continued through the doors of the station and toward the platform.

Bartholomew Aldermouse watched her go before turning, heading to the square vestibule inside the station doors. The telegraph office was busy, with mice running in all directions, translating messages and decoding addresses for delivery. The tall slender mouse stood at the counter, waiting patiently.

"Can I help you?" An attendant asked.

"I'd like to send a telegraph, please." He answered.

The mouse nodded. "Where to?"

"Cairo, Egypt. Mr Arthur Amswerthy." Bartholomew took a breath, thinking through his message carefully.

In the distance, a train whistle blew.

It was late afternoon by the time Basil and Dawson arrived in the city, stepping from the train and onto the cold platform. The bustle and thrum of human feet combined with the shove and scurry of fellow mice created mayhem, a sea whose current the two pulled against, attempting to lag behind the crowd.

"Shall we stop for something to eat?" Dawson asked. "A cheese crepe, perhaps?"

"We haven't the time, Doctor." The detective replied snappishly. His patience had been short and his sleep had been nonexistent since the sudden departure from London. "We've no time to waste. We can eat on the train."

"We'll have to wait for the train, anyway." Dawson protested. "I don't see how a proper meal would be a waste at all."

"They've come through here." Basil explained sharply. "And we must follow their trail if we are to understand where exactly they're headed. Egypt is, after all, a large country."

"What do you propose?" the doctor asked.

"They left so quickly, there was no time to pack." Basil said. "They will need to stop somewhere along the way to outfit themselves for the trip, and as Millie spent her years of finishing school in Paris, it's likely they'd have done so here. Come along, Dawson."

The detective turned, following the crowd toward the staircase that led from the platform to the station exit. It was a long walk, and dangerous in its own right, as even the more secretive lanes for mice were crowded. As they moved, the doctor observed the traffic seemed to move in waves, with an ebb and flow that aligned with the arrival and departure of the steamers. A throng of mice pushed past them as they made their way down the steps toward the exit of the station. Basil stopped suddenly.

"Dawson, look!" He hissed, his eyes fixed at something across the entrance. Dawson followed his gaze. A tall, lanky mouse with a mustache and fur the color of dried wheat moved through the crowd carrying a carpet bag.

"Aldermouse!" Dawson exclaimed.

"Quickly, Dawson." Basil ordered. "Find Millie. I'll apprehend Aldermouse."

Dawson nodded as another wave of passengers began to choke the station. Basil disappeared into the crowd, pushing his way through the throng in the direction of Bartholomew Aldermouse. Dawson moved against the wave, finding it significantly more difficult than his companion to negotiate the tide of mice.

"Pardon me." He excused himself as he jostled his way through the traffic. "Excuse me."

"Stop!" Basil shouted, running at breakneck pace through the crowd, darting out of the hidden laneways and across the open mezzanine, negotiating a sea of swirling skirts and tailored trousers, of thunderous leather boots and shrill screams.

Aldermouse looked up at the commotion just in time to see Basil duck away from a panicked human woman's screeches of "RAT! RAT!"

His eyes narrowed as he recognized the mouse in pursuit and in less than a second, he was dashing across the station, pushing past his own crowd of mice, under dust bins and benches, and out into the open.

"Stop!" Basil shouted again. Mice stopped and stared at the palava, uncertain of what was going on or what they should do. "Stop!"

The crowd thinned again as a train boarded, and Basil raced through the station, at the heels of Bartholomew Aldermouse, who flew up the people's steps to the bridge spanning the platforms.

With a great leap and a thud Basil launched himself forward, clutching at Aldermouse and tackling him to the floor. The two rolled and scuffled, sliding across the cold stone tile, Aldermouse shaking the detective loose. Despite his reserved demeanor, Aldermouse bit and scratched, ruthlessly resisting Basil's attempts to restrain him. With a fierce roll and a kick, Basil skidded across the floor, slipping through the steel railing at the edge of the bridge, only barely catching himself as his body lost contact with the tile.

Basil clung desperately by his fingertips to the cold, cruel tile of the walk, dangling helplessly over tracks that seemed miles below. The edge of the tile was sharp and cut ruthlessly into him as he kicked his feet, trying to haul himself back up and over.

Aldermouse stood, panting. He beheld the scene almost horrifically before straightening, dusting himself off and picking up the carpet bag. Without word or thought, he ran quickly across the bridge and down the stairs, out of sight.

Dawson pushed his way through the crowds, scanning unfamiliar faces for the one he might recognize. It was a haze of confusion and clamour as he dodged mice and peered through the swirl of human activity.

"Miss Pole?" He called out, restrained despite the feeling of being rather bold. "Miss Pole?"

He watched the swarm of bodies once again move in time with the clockwork pattern of traffic, when out of the corner of his eye, a movement caught his attention. He jaw dropped and he felt suddenly cold as he recognized the figure of Basil of Baker Street dangling high above the tracks.

"Basil!" He shouted, his mission forgotten as he pushed his way through the crowd and up the steps.

A whistle blew as the doctor reached his partner.

"I told you to find Millie!" Basil grunted as he tried to pull himself up.

"Come, come." Dawson ignored his chastisement and reached for the detective's hand, hauling him over the edge of the tile. Basil wasted no time in straightening, whirling in circles, trying to spot Aldermouse.

"There!" He said, pointing.

In the distance, the two could just make out the form of Mr. Aldermouse, looking quite shaken and escorting a worried looking Wilhelmina Pole onto a train carriage.

"Millie!" Basil shouted, his voice lost in the hustle and bustle of the station.

The train whistled a warning. Fruitlessly, Basil dashed toward the stairs, only reaching the top as the train began to chuff from the station. His chest fell, his expression defeated.

"We almost had them." Dawson lamented.

"Yes." Basil agreed. "But now he knows we're following him."


	8. Chapter 8

"My goodness!" Millie's eyes widened in shock as Bartholomew pushed through the crowd to join her, visibly shaken with a bruise already swelling around his eye.

"What happened?" She demanded.

"We must hurry." Bartholomew's voice was low and calm as he guided the woman gently by the elbow through the crowd and onto the train. "I've just met a few of the fellows following us."

"They're here?" Her face blanched.

"I've eluded them for now." He assured her, careful not to draw any attention as they found their carriage. "If they're wise, they won't pursue us further, but we must go."

"Oh, Bartie." Millie breathed, overwhelmed as they found their seats. "I am glad you're here... I dread to think of making this journey alone."

"You shan't have to worry about that, my dear." The man smiled demurely. "I won't be letting you out of my sight."

Millie sighed, her face drawn as she looked out the window, watching the Parisian scenery slip by as the train embarked from the station. She watched the countryside from the window of the train, mentally matching the terrain with names on maps she had studied voraciously and remembered from childhood. Some places, she thought, matched their names beautifully, while others seemed disjointed from their names, as though still searching for a title that accurately embodied all it was. The exercise brought her back to the long, languid days of summers long past, balancing on a chair in her father's study, the window open and a breeze rustling her skirts as she pressed pins into the map, carefully wrapping thread over the pins to track her father's journeys as related by his letters.

She followed the strand, reading the names of cities to herself.

"What do you think it's like? Where father goes?" She looked to Basil, who sat across the room in another chair, engrossed in one of Mr. Jeremiah Pole's books, a thick leather-bound volume about the virtues of some government or other. He was tall now, having grown tremendously during his second year away at school. His body was at the distinct disadvantage of some parts being in a bigger hurry to grow than others. At present, he seemed to be all nose and arms.

"Egypt?" He asked, looking up from the book, his voice not yet certain if it belonged to a man or a boy.

"Or India, or Africa." Millie looked back to the map, her eyes shining. "Or any of those far off places he goes."

"I imagine it's like he describes in his letters." Basil replied from his chair, turning his attention back to his book. Millie frowned. He was not as given to imagination as he once was.

"I don't think so." she said. "I think it's darker - more dangerous than he lets on. Why else would mother cry so when he returns?" Her imagination wandered. "Do you suppose he's in great danger when he's away?"

Basil closed the book, considering the question carefully and remembering the way poor Mrs. Pole cried as though the dead were being returned to her when Mr. Pole walked through the door.

"I wish I was there with him." She announced simply. "To help keep him safe."

"And who would keep you safe?" Basil snorted.

"We would keep each other safe, silly." She said, hopping from the chair. "He and I... you could come with us." She suggested. "I'm sure it shouldn't be nearly so scary if you were there, too."

Millie sighed unconsciously as the train shushed around her.

The thunderous noise of the Paris station seemed distant as Basil stood, slump-shouldered at the stairs, watching the tracks down which the train had disappeared.

"Basil?" Dawson attempted gently.

"She's gone." was all the detective said, his voice hollow and his gaze vacant.

"We can still catch up to them." Dawson said encouragingly as his tall companion turned away, walking slowly over the bridge, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose. "There's still a chance."

Basil didn't reply, his eyes downcast as he tread heavily when something caught his eye. Just at the edge of the bridge, caught against one of the bars of the railing, was a scrap of yellow paper. He frowned, reaching down for it.

"Change of plans. Stop." He muttered lowly, reading the message. "Expect arrival in Alexandria within the week. Stop. Await us ."

His eyes widened. His face brightened. A smile spread broadly across his face. He whirled on his heel to face the doctor, who was taken aback by the sudden and somewhat wild change.

"More than a chance, Doctor." Basil grinned. "In fact, we'll beat the devil at his own game. We merely need a faster form of transportation."

"And what is that?" The doctor asked skeptically, recognizing Basil's tone with some reservation.

"Aerial balloon, of course." He answered, a dangerous glint in his eye.


	9. Chapter 9

Basil frowned, the heat of the Alexandria sun and the salty smell of the sea air tickled his nose and prickled under his collar. He sat in the shade next to Dawson, both of them disguised beyond recognition, though it seemed hardly to matter in the city of strangers. Dawson was surprised to find himself more at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings than his companion. The taller mouse, confident and unflappable among every shadowy corner of London, when removed from the city, was at a distinct disadvantage. The doctor sat comfortably in the shade, hands in his lap, watching the traffic of the streets, and ships loading and unloading along the docks.

"Tell me again," He said, stifling a yawn. "Why are we sitting here?"

"Because." Basil muttered, the long days of waiting grating on his patience and testing his nerves. "The telegraph said to meet in Alexandria. They will have to arrive by boat." He scanned the crowds. "There's no possible way they could have beaten us here."

"No." Dawson agreed, squirming uncomfortably as he recalled the journey in the hot air balloon which, despite Basil's claims to the contrary, he doubted the detective could capably pilot. Indeed, the doctor speculated their safe arrival was due more to luck or an act of grace than aeronautical prowess. He watched passengers disembark.

"Basil," He said at last, his gaze fixed across the dock.

"I see them." The detective affirmed, his eyes also trained on the mice crossing the docks, carpet bags in hand. Millie stared in awe at the surrounding scenery, her eyes shining. She turned, trying to look all directions at once, drinking in the details. Bartholomew Aldermouse touched her elbow and she smiled at him, walking willingly along next to him as they spoke casually.

"What shall we do?" Dawson asked nervously. "Shall we stop him now?"

Basil's frown deepened, his ego still sore from the fight in Paris. He watched the two mice as they moved into the streets, the grey one following the self-assured man.

"No." He said at last. "He thinks he's lost us. As long as he continues to believe that, Millie is in no danger."

"Then what do we do?" The doctor inquired.

"We follow them." Basil answered. "Come along, old boy. Try to blend in."

The gentlemen followed the pair through the streets, and it was clear Bartholomew Aldermouse was no stranger to the city, nor that he was not at all concerned with being followed. They took their time as he pointed out landmarks to the woman and stopped to speak a few words here and there with the locals.

"I didn't know you spoke Egyptian Arabic." Basil overheard Millie remark, clearly impressed.

"It rather comes with the territory." Aldermouse replied. "When you're put in charge of organizing digs, it helps to be on friendly terms with the locals. Here we are." He gestured to a grand building in front of them. "We'll stay here while we plan our next move."

Basil and Dawson followed them discretely into the hotel's impressive foyer. The warm color of the walls and rich decore were a striking departure from anything Millie had seen before. The foyer opened into an atrium, where a white stone fountain bubbled in the bright afternoon light. Millie ran a finger along the stone ledge, watching the water fall as Bartholomew Aldermouse spoke English in hushed tones with the concierge.

The water murmured, flashing and dancing under the blazing blue of a sky Wilhelmina Pole had long dreamed of seeing. For a moment, the tense reality she was facing slipped away, and she was once again a child, standing in a dream woven of the bedtime stories her father had told.

"It's really quite beautiful, isn't it?" Bartie's voice made her jump.

"Yes." She admitted, returning to her senses. "But make no mistake. I'm not here for the sights. I'm here to find my father, not holiday in a hotel."

"True enough." Bartholomew chuckled. "But you haven't had a decent rest since before we left London. I insist we stay at least a night while we plan our next move."

The woman looked skeptical.

"I assure you, a proper night's rest won't do you any harm." The slender man insisted, taking her bag from her and handing it to one of the bellhops.

"Please show the lady to her room." He instructed the mouse who took the bag. "I'm just down the hall from you. I'll come find you once you've had a chance to get settled."

Dawson watched from behind an ornately carved wooden screen as the bellhop led Millie away through the foyer and down a corridor, fully expecting the order to come from Basil to follow her. To his surprise, the detective stood rooted in place, watching Bartholomew.

"What are you waiting for?" Dawson asked. "We can rescue Millie now while they're separated."

"Not so fast, old boy." Basil replied. "Stay close to Aldermouse. Our plan is only half-served unless we know exactly what he's planning."

Confused, Dawson obeyed the orders, tailing Basil closely as he trailed behind Bartholomew Aldermouse. The gentleman strode through the halls with purpose, heading in the opposite direction of Millie. He rounded a corner sharply, Basil and Dawson hanging back, peering around the wall and listening as he knocked on a door toward the end of the hall.

The door opened, and Aldermouse addressed the unseen occupant. Basil strained his ears unsuccessfully to overhear the conversation. After a brief exchange, Aldermouse disappeared into the room.

The detective and the doctor took the opportunity to edge closer, closing in on the door in an attempt to hear what was going on.

The voices were muffled, the words not in English. Basil pressed his ear against the door, trying to make out any bits of the conversation he could. Dawson, meanwhile,peered through the keyhole.

"I say -" Dawson gasped. "Basil!"

He tugged the detectives sleeve, quietly drawing his attention to the keyhole. Basil crouched and peered through the lock as Dawson moved aside. His eyes widened.

Just visible across the room, beyond the edges of the moving shapes of the talking mice, a beaten and tired older mouse sat, tied to a chair and gagged. A scar cut across his right cheek, and a piece of his left ear was long missing. He appeared to be sleeping.

"Mr. Pole!" Basil confirmed in a harsh whisper. "It's Millie's father."


End file.
